


Spotting

by MsThunderFrost



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Blood, Brooding, Implied Sexual Content, Jaskier | Dandelion is Getting Too Old For This Shit, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Jaskier | Dandelion, Off-Screen Anal Sex, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Worried Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 07:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23847745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: “So… Are you going to tell me why you’re sitting over here, by yourself, looking like someone just killed Roach? Or are we going to play twenty questions?” Jaskier sighs. “Because, if you don’t mind, just this once, I’d much prefer if you just told me what was on your mind.”Geralt’s face scrunches up in something like misery, “...Why didn’t you tell me?”Jaskier waits for him to continue, but when it becomes clear that he’s supposed to magically know what he didn’t tell Geralt, he frowns. Twenty questions it is. “Tell you what exactly?”Geralt snarls, throwing something in his direction. “That I hurt you!”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 687





	Spotting

“Mmm… Geralt?” Jaskier is exhausted－not only had they spent the last three and a half days in this gods-forsaken forest (a conservative estimate, considering that the foliage is so damn  _ thick _ he can no longer see the sun) and his muscles are desperate for even the briefest respite in a soft, feather-down bed, but…

Well, Geralt had been feeling particularly  _ generous _ the night before, and now everything hurts in an entirely different (albeit much more pleasant) way. He doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to be  _ awake _ . But he’d grown used to the warmth of Geralt’s body pressed against his in the night, and the sudden absence of that simple comfort had viciously torn him from his dreamland. And now he won’t be able to go  _ back _ to sleep until Geralt hauls his glorious arse back from wherever it was he’d seen fit to wander off to in the middle of the night (gods above, he hopes it’s still the night－he wants to  _ sleep _ , even if it’s just for a little while longer). 

When it becomes clear that Geralt didn’t just wander off to take a piss, Jaskier groans and forces himself upright. Gods, he must be getting old－is it normal for his bones to be  _ creaking _ like that? Fuck. Roach gives him a disapproving whinny, inclining her head as if to say ‘get back in bed, dumbass’. Sound advice, which he is most definitely going to ignore. It takes him a minute, but he gets to his feet, tugging Geralt’s shirt down so that it sits properly on his shoulders and covers all of his important bits. And that’s when he sees the faint outline of Geralt’s massive shoulders, illuminated in the dying embers of the fire they’d used to cook dinner－

“Lovely night for a proper brood.” Geralt doesn’t look at him, just continues poking at the blackened remains of their firewood, sending bright sparks shooting up into the velvety dark sky. 

“Hmm,” And normally, Geralt’s brooding is all well and good－Jaskier is fairly well-versed in what he’s come to think of as ‘Geralt Speak’, can breeze through one-sided conversations and never feel like he’s just talking to himself. But right now? He’s tired, and he’s hurting, and he’s going to need a little bit more than  _ ‘Hmm’.  _

“So… Are you going to tell me why you’re sitting over here, by yourself, looking like someone just killed Roach? Or are we going to play twenty questions?” Jaskier sighs. “Because, if you don’t mind, just this once, I’d much prefer if you just  _ told _ me what was on your mind.”

Geralt’s face scrunches up in something like misery, “...Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jaskier waits for him to continue, but when it becomes clear that he’s supposed to magically know  _ what _ he didn’t tell Geralt, he frowns. Twenty questions it is. “Tell you  _ what _ exactly?”

Geralt  _ snarls _ , throwing  _ something _ in his direction. “That I  _ hurt _ you!”

Jaskier pinches the cloth between his fingers, still not sure what exactly it is that he’s looking at. And then his eyes catch the slightest hint of red, amongst various other assorted fluids that had long since crusted and dried. Is this… Okay, that’s a bit nasty that Geralt had held onto the rag that they’d used to clean up after… But there’s no denying that that is blood dotted on the soft, white fabric. Had Geralt accidentally torn him when they…? He honestly hadn’t noticed, and he certainly hadn’t felt any pain (well, pain from  _ that _ , at least). Had Geralt honestly been sitting out here for gods-know how long, punishing himself for something that Jaskier hadn’t even noticed?

What an absolutely stupid question,  _ of course _ he had. Jaskier has had this come up before, with other partners. Even with proper preparation, ample lubricant, and a… smaller than average partner, his tissue can occasionally become irritated, resulting in spotting. A full-on tear is incredibly rare, and judging by the amount of blood on the cloth, definitely not what happened here. But Geralt－his precious, adorable, self-deprecating idiot－would, of course, jump to the worst case scenario and use it to further convince himself that he is a horrible monster undeserving of love. Undeserving of Jaskier. He sighs, carefully depositing the cloth on the ground, out of sight.

“Because you  _ didn’t _ hurt me.” Geralt opens his mouth to protest, but Jaskier presses a finger to his lips, gently silencing him. “Yes, that is blood. It happens sometimes, even with incredibly gentle and attentive partners.” He gives him a soft smile, “It was bound to happen eventually. In fact, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner－,”

Geralt makes a wounded sound in the back of his throat, “...Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Jaskier huffs, “Yeah, it is.” Closing the distance between himself and Geralt, he drops himself unceremoniously into the Witcher’s lap. “I’m not some delicate, wilting flower, Geralt. I’m not going to break from a bit of manhandling.” He says, “And  _ if _ you ever were to hurt me－which you won’t－you’d be the first to know. Trust me.”

Hesitantly, Geralt reaches out, smoothing his hands over Jaskier’s pert arse. “You’re… You’re absolutely certain you’re not in any pain?” His voice sounds so hollow, so  _ broken _ . Jaskier longs to be able to take his pain away.

He drops his head onto Geralt’s shoulder, inhaling deeply. “Ehh… I wouldn’t go that far. I  _ am _ in pain, it just has nothing to do with the absolutely amazing sex we had… yesterday? Earlier today? What the hell day is it, Geralt?” He whines, snuggling deeper into Geralt’s arms.

He feels the rough pass of Geralt’s chapped lips over his temple, “Hmm… what hurts, little lark?”

A snort, “Everything  _ except _ my ass.” And then, “If you give me a massage, I might even be persuaded to forgive you for abandoning me in the bedroll to sit by this sad little fire and brood about something that isn’t even your fault.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” Geralt mumbles, then, all of sudden, they’re standing, Geralt supporting Jaskier’s entire weight with a single arm－fuck, after nearly two decades of traveling together, Geralt’s strength shouldn’t still be so earth-shatteringly hot. Apparently his cock had never gotten the memo.

_ “Geralt _ ,” he tightens his grip around the other reflexively, even though he knows he’s not truly at any risk of falling. 

“Would you rather walk?” He asks, making to place Jaskier down on the ground. The bard makes a vaguely disgruntled sound as he tightens his grip on Geralt, “Yeah, didn’t think so.”

The massage ends up getting postponed－not that Geralt is all that surprised－because the moment he lays Jaskier out on the bedroll, the bard is dragging him down alongside him. He could fight it, if he really wanted. There’s no disputing the fact that he is definitely the stronger of the two. But he’s tired, and still a little distressed, and more than happy to just lay down and hold Jaskier for awhile. The bard snuggles up to his chest, burying his face in the hollow of his throat, and Geralt brings the blankets up over their bodies before allowing his hands to idly wander over those bits of Jaskier’s skin that are within easy reach. 

“You’re thinking too much.” Jaskier mumbles, already sounding half asleep. “If you’re still that upset about it, you could always let  _ me _ top next time.” He can feel the way Jaskier’s lips curl into a lascivious grin at the thought.

Geralt snorts, “Nobody will be topping anybody until  _ you _ are pain-free.” He says, voice soft. He kisses Jaskier’s temple again, “Go back to sleep, little lark. Believe it or not, it’s only been about three hours since we made camp.”

Jaskier groans. He swears to Melitele that he’ll never take the blessed warmth of the sun for granted again the minute they’re outside of this cursed forest. “I expect you to sleep, too. Because if I wake up by myself again, I swear to the gods I will sing  _ Toss A Coin _ , non-stop, until we reach the next town.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” And before Jaskier’s sleep-deprived brain can somehow twist that into a double entendre, he continues, “Goodnight, Jaskier.” His arm snakes around Jaskier’s waist, bringing him taut to his chest.

Jaskier’s fingers thump along Geralt’s chest softly, “Love you too, Geralt.” And then, like an afterthought, “Goodnight…” 


End file.
